


Heart Shaped Box

by Abitscrewy



Category: X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Alcoholism, Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, Drama, Emotionally Inept Middle Aged Men, Healthy coping skills? Don't know her, M/M, PTSD, Remy isn't a functioning alcoholic, When Pietro is the sensible one in the relationship you know something is up, he's not a functioning anything, it fuels him, the man just happens to live on spite
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-18
Updated: 2018-05-18
Packaged: 2019-05-08 14:09:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14695799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abitscrewy/pseuds/Abitscrewy
Summary: I barely slept last night and felt the need for Quickbit. I was gonna write smut tbh but wasn't feeling it, so it turned into angst instead.Suffer with me, gremlins.





	Heart Shaped Box

Remy likes the rain. Something special about how it smells and how it feels. As a kid he was told that the rain has healing properties, that it washes away pain and suffering to make way for something new. He wouldn't put it in so many words, but the feeling is undeniable. It's not the tension of a storm, nor is it the stinging humidity in blazing heat. It's cool and calming on the skin, and patters nicely against cobble and tin. The rain in New York is different from his home in New Orleans. Not quite as, for lack of a better word, healing. Maybe he's biased. But even if he is, any rain is a good chance to reflect.

Thinking about how things make him feel is a newer thing for him. Normally he'd let emotions be, or push them off with a shrug and another swig of whiskey. Shitty years have passed, and thanks to a therapist he's started to actually figure shit out. Letting things boil until the pot burns doesn't help anyone. Just starts fires and sets off alarms, ones that everyone in the building can hear- and he's getting off topic. What was he thinking about?

 

_Fuck, that's right. Pietro. Why'd I just let him leave? Why'd he leave in the first damn place? Tension between he and Lorna, oh joy oh **goodie.**_

He could have at least said goodbye.

Maybe he did.

Maybe he sped into Remy's room and said it while he was asleep, or so fast that nobody heard it. God damn it.

 

Determination and a lot less bourbon than usual leaves his cell in his hand, scrolling through his contacts. Pietro isn't that far down, he'd just had him under Quicksilver.

Because that's what they were.

Co-workers. 

_Focus, you drunken moron. Call him. Text him. Something._

Calling might be a little too severe at the moment, he thinks, so he takes a deep breath and sends a text. Or five.

 

Pietro glances downwards, dreading the fact that his phone wouldn't allow a tone to be less than three seconds long. Three seconds is a fucking lifetime to him. What were they trying to do, torture him? No, he knows it wasn't directly aimed at him. Nobody could have known that one day a man with super-speed would be so annoyed when things went too slow. So what for us is three seconds, for him is about 15. He brushes it off like he does with every other slow thing in his life.

[Gambit]: Hey, whatcha up to homme? Saw you kickin ass on TV and thought we haven't hung out in a while. Want to get together for a drink? Or several, since you got a liver of adimantium

Silvery eyes read over the words over and over. It's not that he didn't understand it or that it was too slow or too fast. He just keeps hearing good old Remy LeBeau's voice in his head. Mr. The Handsome. Fuck him and his stupid pretty hair and his gorgeous eyes and those chiseled abs and-

[Quicksilver]: And whose money are you going to be using to buy the entire bar?

There's a glint of pride in Remy's eyes as he sees the halt. The fact that Pietro took longer than he should have to respond. But his smirk fades to worry. What if he was dreading the conversation? It's hard to read that shit over text. He silently curses the wonders of technology, and sighs.

Focus.  
Breathing is a good thing to remember, Remy.

[Gambit]: Aw that's the fun! Don't tell me you've never put your tab on some rich fucks bank account before?

Pietro rolls his eyes.

[Quicksilver]: Well I hope it's not that Russian you were in with recently. He might try and kill you and then where would I be?

Hah. That should get him.

[Gambit]: Awww you'd miss me? Be still my thieving heart.

[Gambit]: So, is that a yes? Because it don't sound like a no, mon amie.

Amie. Right. Friend. Friends. Yep. That's what they are. That blowjob in Snow's shower was definitely friendly, to say the least. Or Remy bent over Pietro's bed, grasping the sheets for dear life.  
Sounds friendly.

[Quicksilver]: Fine. But there better be more in it for me than just alcohol. You should know it doesn't work on me.

[Gambit]: Oh I know plenty of other things that work just fine on you, sugar~

 

Shit. Friendly, Remy. Friendly. Friends, platonic, co-workers.  
Flirting is not co-working.  
Flirting is flirting, which could lead to sex.  
Amazing, howling, rough, sweat-drenched sex and-  
God damn it, Remy! Focus!

Minutes passed in normal time. Minutes as Pietro stared down at his phone. A low, confused noise he doesn't even realize he's making. What does he even feel? How do you emotionally react to something like that? They slept together a few times. Rough sex brought on by tension and pettiness and Remy's ungodly ability to look sexy even when he's only just woken up. Constantly flirting, casting glances, shamelessly looking at the speedster like he could eat him alive. The thought always made his thoughts race at full speed.  
Minutes is a long time.

[Quicksilver]: You going to give me an address? Or did you forget I'm not a psychic?

He can play it off as waiting as much as he likes, he knows he fell right into Remy's trap. Or his lap. If the night goes well, maybe both.

* * *

A shamelessly sensual bar. The lights are just low enough that Remy doesn't need shades, but bright enough to still be seen in all his stupid flirty Cajun glory. Pietro is there on time as always for the set time Remy had given. The Text must have been spur of the moment if the thief had things to do before getting drunk. He'd normally be up for drinks whenever, maybe even on the job. One of the many reckless things he does. Or did. Surprisingly enough, the drink he's holding as Pietro arrives is softer than Remy's usual.

Red flags: Raised to full mast.

"Bonsoir, mon renard argenté," Remy greets the speedster in a language he's hardly familiar with. "Wasn't sure what you'd wanna start wit. Or if you even want to drink.." They've known each other long enough to know what nervousness looks like on the other. That doesn't bode well for Pietro. Regret is starting to sneak in, but he won't run. Little tired of running, and his metabolism is running on fumes again. So he orders food instead of a drink.  
"Fair 'nuff."

"Why did you text me?"

"Huh? I thought I told you, I-"

"Gam- Remy. I'm not stupid. Don't treat me like I am. Why am I here?"

Shit. Called on his bluff. He should have known better anyway. Remy frowns over his drink and sets it down to run a hand through his hair. Halfway through the motion he remembers that it's a big tell of his. Who cares? Pietro could probably tell anyway, and he knows it. He takes a deep breath, thinking back to a session. Just be assertive. Right. Easier said than done, you state-mandated sh-

"'Cause whether we like it or not, we gotta talk."

"... About what?"

"All of it. We don't gotta talk here. Dis was kind of jus' cause' I thought you'd outright say no if I asked you to my place." He gulps down what's left of his drink and pays for it. "You wanna get dat food to go?" he gestures to the platter of calories as they're set down on the counter. As he speaks those words, the cook looks like the facial equivalent of smashing your hand on your keyboard while weeping softly. Pietro shrugs and asks politely. He's so formal. Constantly confuses Remy.

Remy picked the bar closest to his apartment, so it's only a few blocks to walk. Purposefully doesn't tell Pietro the address, just so he doesn't speed them there. He needs the walk, time to think, time to sober up a little. Time to convince himself not to keep drinking when he gets home. He's been waning off of it, or trying to. Waning to... Less than his normal alcohol intake, at the very least.

Pietro notices the lack of empty and half-full bottles when they walk in. He's surprised, but he doesn't let on. He's too annoyed. Remy could have at least tried not to lie through his teeth, but that's just what he does isn't it. He lies, he drinks, he plays cards, he flirts. Though apparently one of those things has started to change. He wonders if anything else has as well.  
Well shit, even the cats have changed. They're older now except for one new one. A kitten. God damn it, Remy.

"Don't mind O'Malley, he's wary a' strangers."

The cat in question is a skinny tabby with a little over a quarter of his tail missing. Poised carefully, watching the silver one's movements, backing up underneath one of the side-tables. He reminds Pietro of himself, once upon a time. Not trusting anyone to get close except for Wanda. Then again, maybe he's still in that 'upon a time'. This is the time.  
Focus, Pietro. You were mad. Why were you mad?  
Oh right. Remy.

"It's fine." he brushes it off, glancing at the kitten. Then the other kitten. The one with the brown hair and the blood red eyes. The one in a lounge chair, tapping his fingers on the armrest. Normally there'd be a cigarette in his hand. This is all seriously strange. "Did I step into an episode of The Twilight Zone?"

The look on the brunette's face is nothing short of 'wat'

"You don't smell nearly as much of alcohol, you're not smoking, you adopted a new cat, and you're not offering to play a game of strip poker."

The Cajun looks down, frowning grimly.

"Sooo in simple terms: What the fuck is going on, Remy?"

There's a lull, a silence while both chests tighten. While Remy resists the urge to just kiss the man or fuck him or slap him.

 

"What are we, Pietro?"

"Uhhh. Is that meant as a trick question? We're mutants, Cajun."

"Dat ain't what I meant and you know it." sharp eyes pierce right through Pietro's facade. He falters and sits on the couch, running his hands over the leather. "What are we to each other? Colleagues? Friends wit benefits? Hate-lovers?"

"Colleagues." he responds as slowly as Pietro-ly possible so that Remy can hear it. Unfortunately the thief can also hear that he's not sure if that statement is true or not.

Another silence. Neither looking the other in the eye. Lucifer places himself on the coffee table and looks at the both of them, unimpressed.

"You know how many folks have left me in de dust? Let me sit dere alone until somebody picked me up? Like a reliable old tool. Was.. Was dat what it was when we were wit Serval? When you just _left?_ When you'd look away when I poured us coffee de mornin' after? Was I jus' helpin you let off steam? Guilt? Was I just.. No strings attached?" his eyes find Pietro's and lock. There's no looking away, not with those eyes. The color of fire but the feeling of ice.

It's not often Pietro is speechless. "I.. I don't _let_ people get closer than no strings, Gambit."

" _Bull **shit.**_ "

He huffs. "I shouldn't be held accountable for you letting your guard down. We had casual sex."

"What if I wanted it ta' be more den casual?!" Remy snaps "Just because you don't let folks in don't mean it don't hurt em' when you just fuckin RUN OFF!"

"I don't see why you'd let people in. You're a thief. You don't really have room to talk about trust."

"Ooooh never heard _dat_ one before." The cold in those eyes only grows. "I let people in cause'.. Well maybe I'm stupid. Maybe. Maybe I got hope, maybe I'm desperate for somebody to give me a chance to _be_ trusted. Ever think of dat? Do you ever even _think_ of other people?!"

"Don't you fucking **dare** , Gambit. Don't you dare say I don't think of other people."

"Oh right. Wanda. Lorna. Luna. Yeah sometimes I forget. Hard to remember you give a shit when nobody can read you when you goin so fast. When you hardly slow down for anybody." he stops and finally looks away, putting pressure on his temples. He really really wants a cigarette. But he's been off of them for almost a year. So close. "Look, I... I'm sorry. I'm sorry if I gave you de wrong idea or I didn't make myself clear when I was wit you.. Or when.. When I thought I was. I don't know what I thought. I was an idiot. Still am. But I got a right to be mad. You didn't even say goodbye! Didn't leave a note, didn't call or text or anything!"

Remy joined Serval after a difficult part of his life. Very difficult. The kind where he couldn't save people he'd come to care about. A time where he was forced under the thumb of a dirty businessman, running around almost solo, adventuring with a woman who ended up killing herself in front of him. Honestly, his entire life's been quite the shitshow full of such attractions as being manipulated, abandoned, and broken multiple times. He only recently was told that yes, he is actually allowed to be pissed about it.

"Why bring this up now?! It's been four years! What the fuck, Remy?!"

"I almost tried to kill myself."

"What? Wh-" what was he going to ask? Why? Why would Mr. The Handsome, King of the thieve's guild, X-Man, the big hero, kill himself? Or even think about it? Yeah, actually. That's a good question to ask, he thinks. "Why? Did something happen?"

To his surprise, Remy actually laughs. It's nervous and shaken, but it's something. He covers his mouth for a moment, staring wide-eyed at the floor for what seems like hours. At least to Quicksilver. Just staring.

"Yeah.. My life happened... It all caught up too quick an'... If it weren't for my friends, I might be dead. Somebody found me drinkin' an' cryin' myself to sleep every night, burnin' myself up wit a charged up flask."

"You.. You..." What? 'You can do that?' probably not a good question, Pietro. "Are you okay..?"

"So you do give a shit, huh..."

"Well.. I mean, yeah. Sort of? I don't know, my thoughts never made any fucking sense. Caring made less sense. Still makes almost no sense. I care for my sisters and for Luna because.. Because they're my family. But you? You've always been so... Complicated. Weird. Flirting and bantering and bickering and beautiful.."

When Pietro looks up again, he's once more surprised. Remy is crying. He wouldn't have even noticed unless he'd looked up, Remy is good at hiding. Especially so at hiding emotions. His tears always remain silent.  
"Remy..." he's finally slowing down without really forcing himself to. It just seems natural, or like he's trying to walk through tar instead of run on top of it. "Come here you big French idiot."

The very not French man obliges, stagger-shuffling to the couch and sitting down. Red, tear clouded eyes meet silver. Pietro isn't sure he's physically capable of crying? But he's got this twisted feeling in his stomach and chest, and a feeling in his throat that's hard to place. He gulps it down and carefully takes Remy's hand. Looking them over, it's a wonder how he never noticed or asked about them before. The scars on his hands. He figured it would be from accidents while the man was still learning to use his ability. A volatile power. Kinetic energy is strong, adaptable, and dangerous.

"What? No comment about being Cajun?" he tries to smirk or grin or anything. It's a sad attempt, and Pietro finds that he is indeed capable of producing tears. Remy topples like a house of tissue-paper cards, folding in on himself and gripping Pietro's hands tightly. "A-are you laughing? Or crying?"

"Yes."

"Okay, fair. You uh... You just.. Let it out, I guess?" he felt the need to pat his back, but his hands are occupied being peppered with sweet kisses from familiar lips. He moves, laying his forehead on Remy's back so they're now this weird Kama-sutra-looking mess. But with tears instead of sex.

But any way you slice it  
This is way more than platonic.

"We can try.. I don't know, maybe.. Seeing a movie or something. If I can keep my attention on it." he's not sure if he means that as a comment about his speed, or the thought of being distracted by Remy through the whole thing. Maybe a little bit of both.

"I don't wanna force nothin' on you... I just.. I needed you to hear it."

"I know. I want to try. I've been.. I don't know what I've been."

"Lonely? Repressed? Tense for no reason? Starin' into space for hours on end?"

"I thought neither of us were psychic, Remy?"

Remy actually let out a little bit of laughter through his tears. "I uh. Got a shrink. It was mandatory at first, if I wanted ta keep my job.. But she's actually helpin."

Jealousy.

"She?"

"Don't worry. I don't go for types who poke around in my brain. She ain't psychic either. Learned 'bout de brain de old fashioned way..." he sits up, leaving Pietro mildly disappointed that the touch didn't last long enough. "Ah, fuck. I got tears all.. All over your pants..." he snorts back phlegm and looks around for a box of tissues. Lucifer meows. "Thanks, Lucy." it was right next to the suspiciously-omnipotent cat. Remy blows his nose and groans as he tosses it into a trash can.  
"Nasty," he mutters

"Agreed."

The silence lasts nearly four minutes this time before Pietro shatters it.

"Come on," he stands, pulling Remy up with him. "I know you're not drunk, but you look exhausted. How long have you been awake?"

"... Three days." beat "I had a job! Or a mission or.. Whatever we callin' it nowadays. Didn't have much choice." he protests Pietro's disappointed look.

"You're going to sleep."

".. You gonna be dere when I wake up?"

_Shit._

"I'm... I'm a shitty person, Remy, but I'm not a _complete_ monster." I'm not my dad.

"I disagree. You a good person. You just gotta believe it a little more." he fumbles with his shirt.

This is weird. Pietro struggles to find a word for this situation. It's not flirtatious or sexual or teasing, even with Remy stripping down to his boxers. He's not making a show of it, he's genuinely just tired. As he sits leaning against the wall, gesturing for Remy to join him, he realizes the word.

 **Intimate.** This is intimate. It's close, it's touch, it's warmth, but not sex. Remy put his head on his lap without a second thought. Without asking. Normally Pietro might roll his eyes at something like that, but Remy... He's actually kind of cute like that. Curled up mostly-nude among silky sheets, hair messy for once. Not the type of styled messy that he does on occasion. Pure obviously distressed and disheveled Remy LeBeau in his lap. Oh, and a fluffy white and brown Siamese cat with stubby legs at the foot of the bed. These things are ninjas.

"Go to sleep, Remy. I'll be here."

"Mm.. Promise..?"

_Fuck._

"Promise."


End file.
